


Finding the Right Christmas Present for Your John

by stardust_made



Series: The Christmas Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's idea of being sweet to John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding the Right Christmas Present for Your John

As much as Sherlock adores John, having a _whole other person_ in your life complicates things. Case in point: Sherlock could spend the entire day listing those explanations, but instead he needed to use it for cracking an absolutely diabolical case: finding the right Christmas present for John.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he shouts from the sofa, then lifts his head to listen. Nothing stirs downstairs. He drags himself up and to the door, then opens it and yells again. “Mrs. Hudson!”

Small noises, followed by a creaking sound.

“Is that you, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson’s voice floats up. He rolls his eyes.

“Of course it’s me,” he calls back. “I need your help.”

***

“You just have to go to _Selfridges_ , Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson says, face concentrated. “Or _Harrods_.”

They’ve been going round in circles for the last thirty minutes, her making suggestions about John’s presents and Sherlock dismissing them all right out. Mrs Hudson doesn’t seem offended, although she did look a bit disapproving when Sherlock told her he was rather fond of John’s old phone, which meant John was keeping it, end of story.

Sherlock settled into the leather chair when the brainstorming began; he has pulled his legs up to his chest and now he drops his head onto his knees.

“I don’t want to go to _Selfridges_.” He spits out each “s” as if it’s poisonous. “I don’t go there on an average day. It will be hateful now.”

Mrs. Hudson’s reasonable voice sounds closer to his head—she’s clearly moved from the further end of the fireplace, where she has been glancing furtively at the mess on the mantel.

“But you’ll be spoilt for choice there,” she insists. “My sister always goes to a big department store when she wants a present for her husband, and—”

Sherlock’s head shoots up. “John is not—We’re not—”

Mrs Hudson waves dismissive fingers at him. “That’s all right, dear. Anything you say. Just go to one of them. Oh!” She emits an excited squeal. “How about _Liberty_? It’s not as crowded and they’ve got some really nice things, you know. There was this big patent leather belt I had from Margaret two years ago—that was where it came from, I’m sure.”

Sherlock regards her forlornly. This is a waste of time.

“I have a leather belt for John,” he says. “And a cardigan. And some box with Molton Brown bottles in it.”

Mrs Hudson clasps her hands.

“Why didn’t you say so? Oh, I’m sure John would love all of those! Molton Brown!” She gives Sherlock a light, playful tap on the arm. “You’ve really gone fancy for your doctor, haven’t you, Sherlock?” He mumbles a reply and her neck stretches forward like a chicken’s. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

“I _said_ I went shopping with my brother.” Sherlock is impressed to hear he’s accomplished the feat of speaking intelligibly through his teeth.

He still debates with himself whether the metaphorical price for those gifts wasn’t too high. But he was at the end of his tether.

Oh, the horror of that day. After several hours blundering through the streets of London, writhing in doubt as to what was too dull, ugly, or cheap for John, Sherlock had grasped at the final straw and gone to a big music store. Straight into the madness of shoppers and tourists and loiterers who had flocked there from all corners of the damn world. In a moment of desperation Sherlock was prepared to buy John enough DVDs to last him until next Christmas. Sweating in his coat, he spent ten minutes looking for a staff member who wasn’t occupied, only to find a lanky young man with too much facial hair. He provided Sherlock with further proof that people’s minds worked in a haphazard, counterproductive manner. Sherlock gave “Adam” a perfectly detailed description of John’s character and tastes. He spoke for no less than three minutes and produced some marvellous deductions on the spot, he does say so. Sherlock expected the clerk to spit out a list of suggestions afterwards, but all he got was a cautious step back and an awkward “I’ll see if my colleague can help you.”

No colleague appeared. Sherlock left the shop overheated, empty-handed and a whole new level of frustrated—after he had talked about John with such flourish that he _longed_ to see him.

The bustle of Oxford Street had threatened to drown him and there were three full hours until the end of John’s shift. Things didn’t look auspicious at all. Actually “bleak” was how things looked then, so bleak that Sherlock was forced to concede a rare defeat.

He called Mycroft.

That portion of the day he doesn’t want to recall in even the most vague detail. It is enough to remember his brother’s face, coming out of the car. Mycroft’s grin looked like the Millennium Bridge turned upside down.

Sherlock waits for Mrs Hudson to finish tidying up the kitchen, supervising her from the door, eagle-eyed; then, as kindly as he can, he ushers her out of the flat. He closes the door after her with a resolute expression. He is done with enlisting others’ help or going down the traditional routes. What is the point of having a mind like his if he wastes it thinking like everyone else? John is special and John’s present needs to reflect that. More so, John deserves something that will make him happy, not belts and bottles and _things_.

Sherlock just has to think.

***

He isn’t sure he shouldn’t be a little offended that John has figured out the surprise—because John’s beaming face leaves no doubt about it. Disappointment at failing to wow John melts quickly, though, at the obvious delight Sherlock’s present brings before John’s even crossed the threshold of the Veterinary Clinic. After months of faux-pas Sherlock has finally got this one right!

He pushes the door open and something makes him wait to let John in first. The girl at reception—the one who is keeping her allergies secret because she has a crush on Dr. Thomas—starts from her computer. She stares at Sherlock next, not even noticing John, whose eyebrows have risen in anticipation. John’s not saying anything; he’s clearly hoping that he’ll manage to act surprised when his present is revealed. Bless.

“Dr. Thomas is expecting us. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” Sherlock says. The girl nods and reaches for the phone, then changes her mind and leaves the desk.

“I’ll go and check if he’s finished,” she says and skitters off. Sherlock knows she’s lying. It’s Boxing Day and the clinic is empty. Well, no scheduled appointments, of course, but no emergency ones, either. Pets don’t really care what day of the year it is, but for some reason this Christmas their owners must have refrained from stuffing them with too much food. Sherlock still remembers the festive overweight Mr. Whiskerson, who was the cook’s cat and the entire house’s favourite. Thankfully, Mycroft had put some order into the poor animal’s feeding when he started coming home again for the holidays. Sherlock glares at himself for the soft leaf of wistfulness floating in his chest, then sniggers inwardly at his next thought. Naturally, _Mycroft_ would know about diets.

The girl comes back.

“The doctor is expecting you,” she says in her girly voice. Her eyes move speedily between Sherlock and John, which is fine; Sherlock is used to that. But when she goggles at John in ill-concealed curiosity Sherlock has to act.

“This way?” he says as imperiously as he can, then heads down the corridor without waiting for an answer. John hurries after to fall into step but casts an uncertain look behind his shoulder. Sherlock doesn’t have to see John’s face to know that the initial joy has been somewhat diminished by this brash example of people’s inability to keep their noses out of others’ business.

They stop in front of Dr. Thomas’ door and Sherlock knocks, presses the handle down immediately. He is growing really impatient now. A slanted look at John’s face shows that John has upped the level of his own impatience, too—he is positively brimming with excitement as he peers in. Sadly, Sherlock has to abandon looking at John because Dr. Thomas is talking to him.

“I—I—” Or rather, he is stammering at him.

“Doctor Thomas.” Sherlock smiles the way people do when they want to put the other person at ease. “Here we are. This is my friend, Dr. John Watson.”

The two men shake hands. John turns his head sideways, suspicious and no longer amused, when he notices that the doctor is ogling him with curiosity to match that of the receptionist. Sherlock turns to John quickly.

“John,” he says, somewhat solemnly. “I think you’ve guessed why we’re here.”

John’s face undergoes a complete metamorphosis when he turns it toward Sherlock. This is more worth the trouble than Sherlock ever imagined. Inexplicable euphoria at the simple act of bringing someone else happiness. Who knew?

But that’s John. John brings the beauty of ordinary things and places them at Sherlock’s feet.

He now nods in response to Sherlock’s question and looks around again. He seems to be straining his ears, too. Dr. Thomas has bowed his head and shoves his hands in his pockets. Sherlock frowns; something doesn’t feel quite right, but he can’t put his finger on it. Best to get this over with; anxiety is suddenly blooming in his chest.

“I gave your present a lot of thought,” he begins, “and decided I wanted something special for you, because, ah, you know. Um—it’d be nice. For you, because you are—”

Oh, great, that’s it. Talking about his feelings is _really_ going to help with his anxiousness. Sherlock swallows.

“So um, yes. I thought about it and then I had this idea.” He leans forward seeking to share with John like it’s become his habit, like it’s become a necessity for him. John’s eyes are big and glowing as he too leans forward.

“I read about it on the internet,” Sherlock says conspiratorially. “And people sounded so happy about it that I thought you’d be happy, too.”

John’s vibrating now, eyes growing so wide, he’ll need an ophthalmologist soon. He nods encouragingly. Sherlock straightens and finally lets himself smile all the way to the roots of his hair.

“I think the neck would be the best place,” he announces. “Dr. Thomas agrees. Sort of.”

John’s smile lingers for a second or two, carried by inertia, but then it dwindles.

“What?” he says.

“The neck.” Sherlock nods. “You know. The best place for the chip.”

John’s confusion begins a duel with wariness.

“The chip?”

Sherlock’s own grin quickly recedes. Something’s definitely off. He thought John was looking forward to this. His face—Sherlock can get some things wrong about John but not John’s _face_. It was a happy face.

And it’s now transforming into a shocked, incredulous, knowing face.

Oh, it seems this is really not very good.

“A chip? As in—H-How—” John’s voice is raising just like the blood to his head.

“I’m just going to give you a minute to—ah.” Dr. Thomas vanishes from the room.

John boggles at Sherlock. “A chip,” he says with a normal voice, but Sherlock’s learnt a thing or two—John’s face is still red. “A chip!” John repeats for the third time.

And then he flies off.

“You thought it would make for a nice present to bring me here and put a chip in my neck to—to what? Track me down? Have me at your beck and call even more than you do now? Because I don’t think that’s possible, and—but—that’s not even—that’s—” John’s joined the stammerers’ club.

Sherlock takes advantage of the break to interject and correct John. He’s so relieved—for a moment he thought he’d really gone and done it this time.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John! What kind of a present would that be for _you_?” Sherlock looks at John, offended that John should think Sherlock that inconsiderate. “I’m not suggesting we put a chip in your neck!”

John looks taken aback.

“Oh,” he begins, but Sherlock interrupts him to sort this out once and for all.

“I was suggesting we put one in _mine_.” He pauses, then clarifies. “So that you know where I am. Because I know you worry.”

John’s mouth has fallen open. Sherlock feels his forehead wrinkle. What now?

John closes his eyes and drops his chin into his chest, pinching the bridge of his nose. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, “Certifiable.”

Sherlock suddenly feels very stupid—stupidity of the grand, incomprehensible kind, the kind he feels when he knows he is more intelligent than everyone in this clinic combined but will always be painfully inadequate compared to any one of them. And conversely, they might be the group of the boring average…but it’s a _group_.

John lifts his eyes and looks up at Sherlock. He watches him for a long moment and Sherlock locks eyes with him, raises his eyebrows ever so slightly to tell John, _I’m sorry, although I’m actually not that sorry, because when I added it all it did work, so it wasn’t a matter of miscalculation; I was just missing something, but I can’t be sorry about that because I didn’t even know I was missing it until I was here, with you, and saw your reaction, and for that I am sorry, because you were supposed to be happy and this was supposed to show you how much you mea—_

Sherlock suddenly straightens, narrows his eyes at John.

“What did you think I was going to give you?” he asks.

“A dog,” John says plainly.

Well, he never.

“A dog?”

“Yes. A dog. You know. Barks, waves its tale at you, sniffs around. You take it out for a walk—“

“Yes, thank you for your witless description. I know what a dog is.”

John shrugs and opens his hands. His empty hands. His face has cleared a fair bit. Like the English summer sky, his John’s temperament.

Sherlock knows what to do now. (Of all the people. He should have just asked _John_.)

“Okay. Good. Um,” he looks around, uncertain. “Do they sell dogs here?” He’s got an afterthought. “Do they cost a lot? How much cash have you got? I wonder if they’ll take cards.”

John looks as if he’s torn between holding his head again and giggling.

“I don’t want—That’s not how it’s done,” he says, then steps forward spontaneously—he’s probably spotted Sherlock’s face at his words. How many things can Sherlock get wrong about one simple custom?

“You pick a puppy,” John says. His voice has gone soft. “Or a grown dog, from a kennel. But you think about it first, and you figure out what kind of dog you want and whether you can keep that kind of dog. Who’s going to take it out regularly, allergies—that sort of thing.”

“You can still do that,” Sherlock says hopefully.

John nods, then bows his head and plays with a button on his jacket.

“It’s—Everyone decides about these things. Who—When people live together,” he says. He suddenly lifts his eyes and they have lit up again, and Sherlock feels as if an ice crust is melting all over his body.

“That could be my present,” John says. “It’ll be your dog, too.”

Sherlock frowns.

“You want _me_ to have a dog as a present for you,” he repeats slowly, just to make sure, because obviously nothing makes sense about this whole presents business.

John rolls his eyes. “No, you idi— _You_ are getting the dog for _me_ , but for yourself, too.” John fiddles with the button again. “It’ll be...our dog. Your responsibility too.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, cautiously relieved. This looks too easy to be true.

“Okay?” John says, half-doubtful, half seeking confirmation.

“Hmm,” Sherlock nods.

John beams. “”Okay. Good. Excellent.” He straightens in military fashion, but his face looks extremely civilian. “Let’s go to Battersea then. We can talk on the way.”

Sherlock frowns again. His forehead is starting to ache with all this.

“Battersea? There must be dogs closer, John. Are the dogs in Battersea better? Do they feed them differently there?” Sherlock is genuinely puzzled.

John groans. “Just…come.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Why Battersea](http://www.battersea.org.uk/). Beta by the fantastic disastrolabe. Written for themusecalliope. Original entry at [my Livejournal](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/41005.html).


End file.
